Mr. Wicker's Window Part 4

"You made it _yourself_?" Chris breathed, looking aghast at the gnarled knotted fingers, thick and roughened by work and weather, picturing to himself the delicacy of the miniature s.h.i.+p that lay so snugly in its transparent walls. "How in the world could you get it inside?" he asked.

Ned wagged his head. "Ah, 'tis a trick and a tedious thing, no mistaking, but there's time and to spare for it, coming home from China."

"China? You've been there? What's it like?" Chris wanted to know, his eyes eager.

Cilley smiled at him, a snaggled-toothed friendly grin. "That's a tale for another time, my boy, for there's much telling there. You wanted the story of Becky's fine hat."

"Yes--yes!" Chris urged. "Before she comes back."

"Well, now," began Cilley, "Bein' a member of the _Mirabelle_ and all, means I see quite a bit of this port when we're home." He looked arch as if Chris must know the reason for that. "An' seein' as how Mistress Becky and me are fast friends, well--she's told me a thing or two that not everyone knows."

He took a pull on the mug and wiped the froth from his lips.

"It seems," he began, "that in her younger days, Mistress Becky had one craving. She'd seen this hat that she now wears, in a milliner's, and have it she must.

"Now--" and the sailor leaned forward as the story held his own interest--"now a hat of that sort costs many a s.h.i.+lling, and Becky worked and saved for that bonnet for over a year." He eyed Chris again closely. "If you tell what I tell ye, Chris lad," Cilley conjured him, "I shall get even with ye, I swear I will! For I would never want to hurt the feelin's of Becky Boozer, on my oath."

"I'll not tell, sir. Not to anyone," Chris a.s.sured him.

Ned Cilley seemed satisfied. "Well now," hunching closer with his chair, "It seems at long last she paid for that bonnet, and decided to wear it to the spectacle, that very afternoon."

"The spectacle?" Chris questioned, his forehead wrinkled. "What's that?"

"Haw--Haw!" cackled Cilley, "You _are_ a country boy! Why--the _spectacle_, where the players are. The _theatre_--what else?"

"Oh," Chris said shortly, and thought of television and the movies, and held his tongue. He was beginning to try to fit himself into two centuries before his own time.

"Yes," took up Cilley, "so as I was saying, Mistress Boozer bein'

young and flighty in them days, and rightful proud of the bonnet she had took so long to earn, wore it to the spectacle, together with her best gown.

"Now as you seem not acquainted with the theatre, me lad, let me tell you that we give it here in any hall standing vacant, and out of doors in fair weather, and we set the benches in rows for those that pay for seats."

He pulled out an evil-smelling clay pipe and stuffed it with tobacco, tamping it down with one grubby forefinger, and when it was well lit, pointed the stem at Chris by way of emphasis.

"Mistress Becky gets herself a good place, on this occasion, and sits herself down, a-tossin' of her feathers and her flowers, and as proud as a peac.o.c.k, every inch of her. The people pack the benches, and the performance then begins.

"Rightly--" and Cilley jabbed the pipestem at Chris--"Rightly, only ladies of quality wear such hats as Becky wore, and should they go to the spectacle--which would be doubtful, for the crowd makes it no place for gentlewomen--they would be sitting off apart, don't you see?

"But Becky sat spang in the center of the hall, and--you've seen the hat? 'Tis big enough for two and no mistake, and spreads along as well as up--well, the time came to begin. The players came out on the stage, a-speakin' of their parts and abrandis.h.i.+n' of their arms as they do, when all at once a gentleman sitting behind Becky Boozer leaned forward and asked her--ever so polite--'Madam,' sez he, 'please be so good as to remove your bonnet!'"

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Here Cilley leaned forward, one hand on his stomach to facilitate a bow, aping as best he could the speech and manners of a gentleman. In a flash he resumed his own character and turned to Chris.

"Well, did she take it off?" Ned demanded of Chris, frowning with concentration. "'Twas asked with rare politeness, anyone would agree to that." He shook his head solemnly. "Why no, Master Christopher, that she did not! Our Becky had just paid the final pence upon that hat, and after a year, seven months and eighteen days, the hat was hers. She wanted all beholders to admire it. What cared she if the gentleman seated on the bench behind her saw more of her bonnet than of the play? In Becky Boozer's opinion, 'twas a more than fair exchange! So she tossed her head, did Becky, and deigned not even a reply."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Cilley tossed his own sun-bleached thatch and pursed up his mouth in imitation of Becky. Then, with another rapid change of grimace, he squinted up his eyes to signify the growing intensity of the situation, and leaning half-way across the table, shoved the dishes, pies, and pickles out of his way with his elbows. His deep voice sank to a husky whisper.

"So the performance went on, and never a glimpse of it did the poor gentleman see, seated as he was behind our Becky Boozer. So once more he bends forward and he speaks at her ear, urgent-like--"

Cilley's eyebrows rose and fell with his agitation. So strong was the grip of the story upon him that it was evident that he fancied himself at the play, and could see the whole thing before him as plain as day.

"The poor gentleman says again," he took up, "'Madam,' he says, 'I beg of you--please to be so kind! Nothing of the spectacle can I see!

Please and be so good as to remove your hat!'

"And would you believe it, my lad--no." Ned Cilley shook his head from side to side, "No, no, you would not." He leaned back, waving his hand as if to wipe away any lingering doubt in Chris's mind. "Mistress Rebecca Boozer was that proud--_that proud_"--he dropped his voice--"that not for the world would she remove her bonnet. Dear me no! She tossed her head again, feeling all them plumes a-tossin' too, and sat up straighter than before. An' she a tall woman."

Master Cilley took a red bandanna handkerchief from his coattail pocket and mopped his face, so excited and heated had he become at his own telling of the tale. Then once more he leaned forward confidentially.

"Well, little did she dream, our Becky Boozer. For when she tossed her head the second time and made no motion to remove her hat, the gentleman bent toward her, and--no doubt, his words were for her alone. And this is what he said."

Ned Cilley's blue eyes popped and he cupped his hand by the side of his mouth so that his words could carry no further than the few inches dividing the boy and the man.

"He said--and so she told me, it did sound like a roar of thunder, though no one else did seem aware of it--'So, then, Rebecca Boozer, _wear_ your hat!' the gentleman said. 'The Devil himself shall have no power to take it off'n you'!

"And do you know," whispered Cilley in a low rumble, his eyes starting out of his head as were Chris's own, "'Tis our belief it must have been the Devil himself who sat behind her there, for from that very time Rebecca Boozer has been unable to remove that hat, neither by pus.h.i.+ng, pulling, prying, steaming, cutting, tearing, nor by any method howsomever! The Devil it was! The Devil it must have been!"

Master Cilley, exhausted by his recital, fell back in his chair, with just strength enough left to replenish his pewter mug from the jug of ale. Then, refreshed, he set the mug down, wiped his lips, and c.o.c.ked an eye at Chris who sat staring at him open-mouthed.

"Try it yourself," he suggested wagging his head. "I have. You'll not be able to heave it off, that I promise you. That hat is there for good and all. Mistress Boozer will doubtless be buried in that bonnet." He c.o.c.ked his head the other way. "And what do you think of _that_?" Ned Cilley enquired.

After a long and thoughtful pause Chris found his voice.

"Master Cilley," he said respectfully, "Does she--does she _sleep_ in it?" he asked.

The picture of the elephantine Becky Boozer with a counter-pane under her chin and the hat with twenty-four red roses and twelve waving black plumes rising above the pillow took hold of the sailor's fancy.

He tipped back in his chair and laughed till he cried, and as he was coughing and spluttering, Mistress Boozer herself came rustling out of the pa.s.sageway and across the kitchen to the table.

"Be off with you, boy!" she cried. "You and Cilley--you're two of a kind, that is plain to be seen!"

She looked from one to the other and Chris decided that it was a good thing for him that Becky likened him to the object of her doting, Master Cilley.

"Get along with you!" she cried again, pulling Chris up out of his chair by his coat collar. "You are wanted by the master in his study, so look sharp! It's down the pa.s.sage and to your right," Becky said, "and knock before you go in!"

Chris started off, but in the dusk of the pa.s.sage he looked back in time to see Becky Boozer lost in t.i.ttering giggles and wild blushes as Master Cilley, reaching up as high as his arm would go, chucked her under the chin.

CHAPTER 6

Chris stood for a moment before the closed door of Mr. Wicker's study.

His head was full of the story of Becky Boozer's hat or he might have glimpsed the room beside him--for the pa.s.sage stopped at this point.

Beyond the pa.s.sage lay the dimly glimmering shop with its bow window at the far end, and the door to the street beside it. He might have been able, had he not been so intent on Becky's story, to slip past the dusty bales and cases and out into--what? But Chris's head was ringing with Ned Cilley's tale, and with all the things, so different and so absorbing, that surrounded him. He put out his hand, knocked, and on hearing a low reply, stepped inside.